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last update: 1st Mar 11

 
PATRICIA BISHOP (       -2015)
 

 

 

Woman Washing                      Katty Delainey

 

Child With Liver Damage                      Visiting Alice

 

Woman Washing

At the side
of the porcelain sink
is a cracked jug.
 
Her thumb splays
across its surface
as she lifts it, bends forward
 
and thrusts the warm water
over her hair, rubs in the shampoo.
Violets this week.
 
Makes a great froth
on the top of her head
as she knuckles the lather.
 
then three lifted jugs
till all turns smooth and black.
Straightens, half naked.
 
I could swing from the strong balance
of her arms as she rubs and turbans
the towel about her.
 
Now fresh water
and face to waist
lathered and washed.
 
I think she must be beautiful.
Finger my own white dress
with the rabbits.
 
Rub a tuck of its cotton
against the smooth silk of her blouse,
gently touch the lines of stitches,
 
till she suddenly turns and I step back.
‘Leave it alone.’ she says
but not shouting.
 

Patricia Bishop

published in Smiths Knoll;
in anthology, Parents, Enitharmon in association with Second Light



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Katty Delainey

Already there is dust on the table,
fluff on the floor.
This room she’d scour daily,
corners and ledges glazed.
She’s make a mirror of the paint
huff shine on the glass.

When we were little our feet
grew dextrous on polished stairs.
We’d negotiated with ease the skid traps
of rugs. No evening ended without
her summoning the hoover.

Once I had my own place
I deliberately muddled it
with papers, books, biros.
I’d leave the mugs unwashed
till morning. Swore
I’d never settle to a tidy house.
 
But that day, seeing her yellow
sovereign face on the hospital pillow
I scrubbed the floors and walls, ordered
and dusted each shelf and every cupboard
found myself hovering at midnight.
 

Patricia Bishop

published in Odyssey



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Child With Liver Damage

I had ‘specialed’ him,
coming in when off duty
with the odd comic, a bar of chocolate.
 
He would lie with his eyes closed
but twitching a little, like a snared rabbit.
His hands soft with disuse.
 
Even his hair slipped away
so each day we’d find brown threads
on the pillow.
 
All this so long ago I forget
his name even. In the end
he could only sip from a feeding spout.
 
When it happened I told the parents.
She had an odd little hat skew-whiff
over her forehead. The knot of his tie
 
too small, too tight, like his hands.
‘Thank you nurse.’ they said
as if I had told them the time.
 

Patricia Bishop

published in Smiths Knoll, Long Pale Corridor, TVW Film, and in translation in Timpul (Romania).



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Visiting Alice

Sister Mary Magdalen told us
as we sat cross-legged and steaming
in the Jubilee Hall.
 
Maisey Smith, sniffing a little,
sat apart, a broad black ribbon
on her arm and a black bow catching
her hair in a single knot.
 
We were to see her Alice dead,
in a box, on the third floor
of the Margery Street Flats.
We were to remember death
would come to us all and behave.
 
The girls went first, in pairs.
Most wore summer frocks
with jerseys or cardigans.
Laura’s had tears in the hem
but I had a new blue dress
with cuffs.
 
Steps, landings, steps
and more steps.
Then number forty-three
its brown door open.
 
Maurice started crying
so Sister Clement smacked him.
 
The room smelt of soap,
Alice of disinfectant.
 
We walked round the coffin
in a slow ring-a-rosie,
crossing our selves,
staring at the candles.
 
Mrs. Smith in black dress
and black lisle stockings
stood at the head of the box.
 
No one spoke. Twenty-seven children
making no noise save for the edges
of Maurice’s sobs and our summer
sandals slipping on the polished lino.
 
Alice had gone from her face
and a neat white frill
covered the scars on her neck.
I didn’t look at her hands.
 

Patricia Bishop

2nd Prize, National Poetry Competition



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